leave them burning and then you're gone
by Regency
Summary: AU. When Bernie attends a community theater showing of Mamma Mia! starring her daughter, she expects to have to grit her teeth just to sit through it, but Charlotte performs beautifully and one of the supporting actresses is a sight for sore, gay eyes. Bernie has to meet her.


Author: Regency

Title: leave them burning and then you're gone

Pairing: Bernie Wolfe/Serena Campbell

Warnings: None

Summary: AU. When Bernie attends a community theater showing of Mamma Mia starring her daughter, she expects to have to grit her teeth just to sit through it, but Charlotte performs beautifully and one of the supporting actresses is a sight for sore, gay eyes. Bernie has to meet her.

Author's Notes: Come squee about Berena with me on Tumblr at sententiousandbellicose!

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, settings, or stories recognizable as being from Holby City. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.

* * *

Here's the thing. Bernie doesn't really do musical theater. She respects it as an art. She knows that months of preparation go into putting on a show, that each performer's participation is the work of years of training. She could not admire their talent and skill more. That doesn't mean she cares to fritter away hours of her life watching people in lurid costumes sing show tunes. It's a time-honored tradition-for other people-and Bernie is content not to number among them. Only this time Charlotte has tried out and been cast in a Holby City Players production of _Mamma Mia!_ , and she has invited Bernie to watch after months of tender, tentative reconciliation.

Bernie is on the front row on opening night with bells on.

Charlotte is playing Sophie, one of the main characters of the play. Sophie is a young woman who has lived on the Greek island of Kalokairi with her mother all her life and never known her father. Now that she's getting married, she's finally ready to find out. Musical hijinks instantly ensue when the three paternal candidates arrive to give her away at her wedding and her mother realizes just what it is Sophie hopes to do. It's a love story. Maternal, paternal, platonic, and romantic; _Mamma Mia!_ touches on it all through the medium of ABBA.

Charlotte and her brother would be surprised to know Bernie is familiar with the music. Not even she could fail to recognize ABBA having come of age in the 70′s and 80′s. She was simply unaware that it was _all_ ABBA. All of it. For all that Bernie never wants to hear "Dancing Queen" again, she fears she'll be _having the time of her life_ on her deathbed. The lyrics have taken trenchant, insidious root; the show ought to come with a warning.

That isn't to say the cast isn't good. They've obviously put a great deal of practice into their choreography and singing. They're on-key to Bernie's untrained ear and seem reasonably on beat during the dance numbers. Charlotte is charming as the ingénue daughter trying to find her way in the world by illuminating the secrets of her mother's heart. An actress billed as Colette steals her every scene as Sophie's harried, romantic, free-spirited mother, Donna. Donna's best friends, Tanya and Rosie, are the hysterical, loving Greek chorus who buoy her forward, and back, toward a love she lost before Sophie was a twinkle in her eye. These are the characters whose antics spur Bernie into braying laughter so abrupt she slaps a hand over her mouth to quiet herself. Still, over half the cast rounds on her position on the front row, including Charlotte. Every last one of them grins; the actress playing Rosie, the kooky, carefree friend, winks at Bernie outright. Bernie looks her up on the cast list-her name is Serena.

By the end of the show, when Donna and her former bandmates have donned vibrant lyrca jumpsuits to relive their glory days on stage, Bernie has decided she likes Serena the best out of the supporting cast. Not for any particular reason. Certainly not because her red and silver jumpsuit does wonders for her figure (Bernie scarcely noticed, truly). Not because her voice is easily among the strongest or because she's the least inhibited performer when given the room to shine (both things are true); she just stands out, a lighthouse beckoning from the farthest reaches of a tumultuous sea and Bernie is a ship in distress.

Bernie puzzles out her interest through the encore of the show, squinting through shaking hips and rhythmic shoulder shimmies, and dazzled by stage lighting effects reminiscent of clubs Bernie never visited twice in her 20′s. The cast and crew put on quite a finale, one that makes Bernie smile and leaves her a touch wistful when they all find the ending they're looking for. If only real life could be resolved in two acts.

Bernie gathers the flowers she's brought for Charlotte and slips away to queue outside the stage door just after the encore but before the final curtain call. She hates that she won't have a chance to see Serena take a bow, but it's probably for the best. Bernie isn't in the habit of mooning over unknown women; she shouldn't start that now.

The cast greets a modest crowd outside the stage door of the Holby Community Theater. It's easy to see from how comfortably they all talk that those waiting are largely composed of friends and family. There are warm hugs exchanged and kisses pressed to powdered cheeks. Lights begin to flash all over as people gather for selfies. Bernie feels very much the odd woman out amid the chatter burbling at the volume of a shout. She has to remind herself that she promised to be where Charlotte needed her; it's all that prevents her from leaving to the Chinese she spotted around the corner to eat until it all dies down.

While waiting for her daughter to appear, she sees her favorite supporting player in the flattering jumpsuit exit wearing a heavy dressing gown and scarf looped round her neck to ward off the windy evening. The shimmering red lyrca is still visible underneath. So are the silver space boots. They can't be less than five inches and Serena towers above the crowd in them. Her cast mate, Sian, who played saucy, irreverent Tanya, is half a head shorter than her in the same.

Sian and Serena work the rope line like pros, nimbly dividing their attention between their admirers and whatever conversation they're having. From the sound of it, they're tag-teaming off-color commentary about a member of the audience who was enjoying their costumes a bit too much due stage left. He was escorted out by a Ric Griffin-or Rocky Griffin? Bernie isn't sure which it is. Sian calls him Rocky and Serena's tone mocks her every use of the sobriquet. Probably some kind of private joke.

It's at that moment that Bernie decides to speak to Serena. That's what stage door is for, isn't it? To express her admiration. Also to examine the construction of Serena's jumpsuit with her own eyes. She hasn't anything else to do till Charlotte surfaces from backstage and it can't hurt to indulge her private whim just this once.

Bernie stands stationary at the security cordon to wait her turn. She takes a visual pass of the crowd every few minutes in the hopes of spotting Charlotte. It doesn't help that she doesn't know if Charlotte shed the brown wig she wore as Sophie to match the color of Colette's hair. She's still looking when the women in red and yellow reach her position on the line.

"Did you enjoy the show?" asks Sian, instantly snapping Bernie to attention. She's signing the playbill of an attendee to Bernie's right, but she's looking at Bernie. Serena is conferring with someone to Bernie's immediate left and Bernie doesn't know where to direct her eyes.

"Very much. More than I expected. I've never been much for musical theater."

Sian pokes out her lower lip. "Pity. How did you get roped into attending?"

"My daughter's in the show."

"Don't tell me Charlotte's yours?" Serena says, smoothly slotting into their conversation as if she's been there all along. She still has an uncapped silver Sharpie in hand.

"She is."

"I should have seen it earlier. She's the very spit of you."

Bernie tucks her untidy hair behind her ears, suddenly wishing she'd taken more time getting ready before coming out tonight. She hadn't counted on meeting someone she wanted to impress.

"I'm sure she's sick of hearing that."

"Poor thing. She must know it's a compliment. How fortunate she is to take after such a beautiful woman."

Sian looks at Serena sidewise as she addresses Bernie, "So you enjoyed the show. What was your favorite part? Besides Charlotte's star turn as Sophie."

"Um." Bernie catches sight of a patch of skin that certainly wasn't bare earlier and her thoughts swirl into unintelligible chaos. While Serena is still wearing the jumpsuit under her robe, it's clear she's lowered the front zip for comfort, offering Bernie an unobstructed view of the woman's chest from clavicle to sternum.

Sian smacks Serena's shoulder. Serena grouses and tightens her robe around her.

Bernie casts about for an opinion that won't incriminate her. "I enjoyed the singing, but I was very impressed by the wardrobe. My compliments to whomever designed the costumes in the finale. I thought they were very..."

The actresses wait, expressions off-kilter mirrors of one another. Serena's comes worryingly close to teasing.

"Complimentary," Bernie finishes, wincing at her inability to come up with something less perfunctory. It isn't as though she can say she appreciated seeing Serena as is, attired in skin-tight red and silver lyrca, gyrating and hip-thrusting across the stage to the sound of a Swedish pop band's greatest hits. Bernie has no experience having such a conversation and has no expectation of succeeding in the endeavor. And certainly not without somehow insulting Sian in the process.

"Complimentary, she says," murmurs Sian to Serena. "I think I'll leave you two to discuss the finer points off of satin versus spandex. I hear my name being called."

Serena glares at her. "I don't hear anything."

"Old age catching up to you, perhaps. Maybe you need a pretty blonde-other than me-to keep you young." She slides her eyes over Bernie as if to make a point. Serena huffs. Bernie is beginning to regret the stage door idea. Chinese food and alcohol sounds rather like an inspired idea after this.

Sian wiggles her fingers in farewell and floats down the rope line to the next waiting theatergoer. Serena stays, glowering balefully at the other woman's retreating back.

Still, while Serena is focused elsewhere, Bernie looks her fill. Serena is, what's the word, statuesque. Fuller-figured. Well-endowed in the nontraditional sense. Very well-proportioned. She fills her jumpsuit well. Bernie is a fan of Serena's now, for the acting, for her booming voice, and for her ample...right. Bernie might make it a point to watch Serena perform again sometime. If there are costumes like this, all the better. But no more stage door encounters. She doesn't think her blood pressure can tolerate the stress.

When she looks up from her perusal of Serena's copious assets-for research purposes!-Serena is watching her. Serena had clocked her eyes going south about .35 seconds into Bernie's twenty-second examination. Her right eyebrow conveys the weft of her amusement. "Admiring the set design?"

Bernie shoves a hand into her coat pocket. She admits nothing, no matter how red she can feel herself becoming. "I like the color. It's very fetching."

"Big on red?" Big on thick, more like, not that Bernie can say that. Not that she ever would. But if she were to encounter Serena at a pub, she might buy her a drink. This is not a pub.

"Um," is her very inspired answer. To cover, Bernie plucks a rose from the bouquet she bought for Charlotte. "These are for Charlotte, but here's one for you. I thought you brought a lot of spirit to your role."

Serena lets her off the hook for her gaffe and accepts the rose. She sniffs it and its scent brings a sweet smile to her face. "Aren't you lovely? I don't know the last time anybody gave me a flower after a show."

"You were brilliant."

"Not bad for a bit player," Serena counters.

"For anybody up there. I couldn't take my eyes off you." Not for one second once Serena had drawn her notice.

"I heard you." Though it's clear she isn't poking fun, Bernie can't tell how she's meant to take Serena's words.

"I wager everybody in the theater heard me."

"There weren't any complaints from the cast or crew, in case you're wondering. We like to know somebody's enjoying themselves; applause and laughter are our only feedback before the reviews roll in."

"Maybe, but not that much."

Serena sniffs her rose again. "Exactly that much."

Bernie would give her a second rose if it would keep Serena smiling, only she isn't sure how she'd justify the follow-up present.

"You made me laugh. I don't find much funny these days. It surprised me, I wasn't prepared."

"I'm glad. That's all we can hope to do."

"I'm not much of a theater goer, but I was very impressed."

Serena hums. "Good, otherwise I'd have to question your reason for giving me this flower. Did you want me to sign something for you or am I keeping you from seeing your daughter?" Charlotte had slipped out the stage door just seconds before and become entirely preoccupied being doted on by some of her school friends who'd also been invited to attend opening night.

"My dance card's free for the moment." She doesn't mean to give Serena a winning smile but it finds its way to her lips anyway. Serena winks at her for the second time, a potent gesture this close that strikes Bernie full-on. Twinkling brown eyes, an impish nature, and a figure that Bernie is going to stop ogling at minute now. Simply put, Serena ticks each of Bernie's desired boxes in full. A rarity.

"Do you have your playbill?"

Bernie pats down her jacket and jeans and finds both empty but for keys and mobile. She must have dropped her playbill on her way out the theater.

Serena tuts without rancor. "Have mine. Who shall I sign it to?"

"Bernie," she says after some consideration. Chances are good she'll never meet this woman again, she hasn't any reason to lie to save her blushes.

"All right, Bernie. Thank you for coming tonight. It was a pleasure meeting you."

"It was my pleasure seeing you."

Serena gives Bernie her playbill. Their fingers don't touch, not quite, but Bernie would testify that a current passes right through the glossy pamphlet from Serena to her. As they part ways, Serena smiles like she sings: gloriously.

"Goodnight, Bernie."

"Goodnight, Serena."

Bernie glances down at the autographed front cover to keep from staring like an ensorcelled schoolgirl after the other woman. She's signed it, _Happy to give you a laugh. Serena x_. Under her name is a series of incomprehensible numbers. Bernie brow knits together for the heartbeat it takes her to realize it's a phone number.

Bernie clears her throat and waves the playbill like a flag on the field till Serena drifts back to her. "Erm, did you mean to...leave your number?"

Serena watches her stumble through her question with some exasperation. "In case you ever want to see those dance moves up close. Or try on the jumpsuit yourself. Clear?"

Bernie nods. "Crystal. 10-4. Roger that. Feel free to throw in your own clichés anytime now."

Serena pats her hand where it's braced on the steel cordon. "I think you've got us both covered, darling."

Bernie's left staring at Serena's back as she goes to embrace one of Charlotte's school friends who greatly resembles Serena and then Charlotte herself. She must heap Bernie's daughter with compliments given how vividly she colors at Serena's attention. Charlotte was very good. She is gifted with all the musicality Bernie lacks, and cursed with all the introversion. Like her mother, Charlotte muddles through.

After what seems like another hour in the chilly alley alongside the theater, Charlotte's group releases her to Bernie's custody. Her daughter ambles up all red-faced from enduring what must be a mountain of well-wishes. She's scrubbed clean of grease paint and her blonde hair's brushed neat as Bernie can never manage without a construction crew and the heat of a volcano from a straightening iron.

Bernie presents her daughter with the slightly smushed bouquet first thing.

Charlotte hugs it to her chest like a shield, just as Bernie had. "Did you enjoy the show, Mum?"

"Loved it. You were incredible, Lottie. I'm so proud of you."

Charlotte ducks her head, nervously fingering her braided hair with the hand not clutching her white roses. "I was okay. I dropped the big note in 'Thank You for the Music'-did you notice?" Bernie did not.

"I thought you were perfect. You'll be even better tomorrow."

Charlotte brightens under Bernie's reassurance. "You think so?"

"Nothing teaches like experience, pet. I know that. You'll get better every show. By the end of the run you'll be an expert."

"That's what Serena says! Have you met her?" Charlotte cranes around to spot Serena, but the woman, with Sian and her young doppelganger in tow, has disappeared from sight.

"That was Rosie, right?"

"The one in red, yeah. Isn't she the best? She has all these tips for getting over stage fright. She says it helps her in theater. She's a consultant like you used to be, Mum."

"Is she? How lucky." What a small world. It seems she and Serena will have more to discuss than just strategically placed glitter.

"We could go to the cast party. You could meet her." Just like that Bernie knows she hasn't been as subtle in her appreciation of Serena's assets as she thought. She's still growing accustomed to her daughter knowing she fancies women. Her tacit approval is a still newer development. Bernie is nonetheless convinced she'll be seeing more of Serena sooner rather than later. Tonight is all about Charlotte and buttressing their battered relationship.

"I was actually hoping to treat you to dinner to celebrate your perfect opening night. Just you and me."

"Just us?" Cameron has decamped to the library to cram for exams and Marcus is on-shift till morning; both have already promised to attend later showings. But then, neither of them have as much to atone for as Bernie has. Every little bit helps.

"You bet. I want to hear all about tonight and rehearsals and school. I'm all yours."

Charlotte's smile verges on euphoric. None of that staunch British reserve for her girl. To her emotions, the world's a stage. "For real? You don't have work overnight or anything?" Bernie pulled an entire piano of strings to make it so.

"For real. Nowhere I'd rather be. You up for it?"

"Yeah!" Then, seeming to conclude she shouldn't be so eager to spend time with her mother, she tempers her excitement. "I mean, yeah. Sure." Her eyes still shine. Bernie's missed that. "Where are we eating?"

"I was thinking Chinese."

"I _love_ Chinese."

"Then, you're in luck. I know just the place."

Charlotte all but skips at her side as they make for the high street to catch a taxi. After some additional encouragement she begins to regale Bernie with stories of the last-minute snags production had hit before the curtains rose tonight. Someone burst a seam. Someone fell down a flight of stairs, literally breaking a leg in the process. The director, a man with a penchant for flowered shirts named Sacha, had got all out of sorts when stage manager Fletch mentioned the Scottish Play by name in the footlights an hour before they were set to perform. Apparently, this Fletch is banned from the theater for the duration, not that that kept his friend (co-parent? housemate?) Raf from letting him in the back when the lights went down.

Very dramatic, these theater folk. Bernie thinks she'll like them. Some of them (all right, one of them), she expects to like very much.

But that's for another night...


End file.
